


WWPCD (What Would Phil Collins Do)

by blue_morning



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-ish, Destiel - Freeform, Egregious use of Phil Collins ballads, Fluff, IKEA Furniture, M/M, Really shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_morning/pseuds/blue_morning
Summary: Cas rips open the first box, pulls out the instruction booklet, and looks at it reverently like he’s just found another angel tablet.“Jeez Cas, we’re gonna be here all night. Why don't you just mojo it together.”“Sam told me that it's a rite of passage for everyone over the age of eighteen to put together  IKEA furniture from scratch. And I'm going to do this right, which means following the instructions.”“Cas, you’re killing me here.”“Sam also told me that putting together IKEA furniture is fun, it’s a like a jigsaw puzzle for adults.”Fucking Sammy.Not infrequently, there are times Dean asks himself why he ever sold his soul for that gigantic, floppy-haired pain in the ass. This is one of those times.





	WWPCD (What Would Phil Collins Do)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to write my dcbb, but this story kept loitering in my brain until I wrote it down and evicted it. So here, have some fluff to pass the time during hellatus.
> 
> As always, a million thank-yous to [Janet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sconesandtextingandmurder/pseuds/sconesandtextingandmurder) (sconesandtextingandmurder) for making this better.

It’s late on a hot Saturday afternoon, two days before Labor Day, when Dean and Cas hit the road after laying waste to IKEA, the long flat packs containing a queen-sized _Malm_ bed, a roll-packed _Haugesund_ mattress, the green cooler full of eight bags of frozen meatballs, and two table lamps tetris-ed into the Impala’s trunk. There’s a red bandana taped to the end of the one box that won’t fit all the way in, Baby’s trunk tied carefully down around it. Dean searches for a radio station playing something worth listening to, dismissing Cas’s suggestion of NPR out of hand. 

Cas is pouting in the passenger seat. Folding the IKEA receipt into ever-smaller squares, he stares resolutely out of his side window. Dean pretends not to notice, dialling into a rock station playing the Stones. They pull out onto the highway with _Jumpin’ Jack Flash_ wailing from Baby’s open windows. 

“I like NPR,” Cas says mutinously.

“Yeah, well this is a road trip, and music is mandatory. Not gonna listen to someone talking about elephant poaching or Senate reform on a day like today, out on the open road.” He grins at Cas, then launches into the chorus with Mick.

“Well, we could listen to this,” Cas hands a white cassette tape over to Dean, who squints at it.

“ _Abacab_? Dude.”

“It’s Genesis. And Genesis is rock, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s Genesis, but it’s not _Lamb Lies Down on Broadway_ Genesis. It’s not _Peter Gabriel_ Genesis, it’s just shitty Phil Col —” Belatedly, Dean remembers Cas’s recent infatuation with Phil Collins ballads. Cas had found a shoebox full of Phil Collins and Santana cassettes at a yard sale outside of Lincoln a few weeks back, and to Dean’s dismay liked the former way better than the latter. Dean has had a far closer relationship with Phil Collins over that time than he ever wanted — listening to the tapes had inevitably led to Cas downloading Phil’s entire discography onto his phone.

But Cas is here now with him, Dean reminds himself, he’s going to be living in the bunker, which is the reason for the IKEA run in the first place. It hits Dean again, like a cuff to the back of the head, he’s going to be close. All the time. _Finally_. He mentally reverses course, plucks the cassette out of Cas’s hand and jams it in the tape player. “You’re right, Cas. Genesis is rock.“ The heavy synth of the intro fills the car.

They drive through the heat of the late summer evening, stopping for gas when they’re about an hour from the bunker. Moths are already fluttering around the sodium lights, pale against the fading sky, when Dean comes back to the car after paying. He hands Cas a Snickers bar. “Here, this oughta hold you until we get home.” _Home_. Dean starts the car and leans over towards Cas, grinning. “It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses.” 

Cas looks back at him with massive incomprehension. “Dean. We’re not going to Chicago. It’s not dark yet, and you’re not wearing sunglasses.” 

Dean sighs heavily and pulls back onto the highway. “You were supposed to say, ‘Hit it,’” he says plaintively. _Fuck his life_.

They unload the car in the bunker’s garage, and the boxes containing the bedframe and the mattress and table lamps get moved to the empty bedroom Cas has claimed as his own. It’s the second door past Dean’s room, on the same hallway, which reassures Dean immensely. If Cas needs him, for anything, like a bad dream or something, he’ll be close. Real close. Dean does not examine the the feeling, part delight, part sheer ball-shrinking terror, that comes over him when he thinks about it in any detail. He looks up and sees that Cas is holding the much folded and unfolded receipt and is looking from it to the boxes and back again.

“Dean, these names don’t make any sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of them aren’t even real Swedish words, and the ones that are don’t have anything to do with the actual function of the item.”

“Like what?” 

“Well, _Malm_ means ore. As in a naturally occurring solid material from which a metal or valuable mineral can be profitably extracted. That has nothing at all to do with bed frames. Especially since this one seems to be composed of fiberboard and not rock.” 

Dean’s brain stalls for a minute, like actually record scratches, before coming back online as he remembers Cas’s angelic, and therefore encyclopedic, knowledge.

Cas continues. “And _Haugesund_ isn’t even a Swedish word at all. The closest one in spelling to it in the dictionary is _Havandeskap_ and it means pregnancy. I don’t understand. A mattress should be named something like _Mjukhet_ , softness; or _Stadig_ , firmness; or even _Sovplats_ , sleeping place.”

“Well, if we don’t get this put together, you aren’t gonna have a _Sovplats_ for tonight and you’re gonna end up on the couch again.” Dean stops, mid-reach for one of the boxes as a thought hits him. “What are the meatballs called again?”

“ _Köttbullar_.”

“What does that mean in English? It’s something really random right? Like ‘wasp’ or ‘taxi’ or ‘bathing suit?’”

“No, _Köttbullar_ means ‘meatballs.’”

Dean closes his eyes and wills the headache that’s just started behind his eyes to go away. Cas rips open the first box, pulls out the instruction booklet, and looks at it reverently like he’s just found another angel tablet.

“Jeez Cas, we’re gonna be here all night. Why don't you just mojo it together.” 

“Sam told me that it's a rite of passage for everyone over the age of eighteen to put together IKEA furniture from scratch. And I'm going to do this right, which means following the instructions.”

“Cas, you’re killing me here.”

“Sam also told me that putting together IKEA furniture is fun, it’s a like a jigsaw puzzle for adults.”

_Fucking Sammy._ Not infrequently, there are times Dean asks himself why he ever sold his soul for that gigantic, floppy-haired pain in the ass. This is one of those times. 

“Dean, I've never done a jigsaw puzzle.” He looks earnestly at Dean. “I want to do a jigsaw puzzle.”

And what can Dean say to that? Cas has’t had very many pleasant human-type experiences to date. He deserves his stupid Swedish jigsaw puzzle. Dean sighs and starts sorting the screws and dowels and other hardware, making sure that they’re all there. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road.”

“We need a Phillips screwdriver and a hammer,” Cas says, “and an area rug.”

“An area rug.”

“Yes, the pictures in the instruction booklet show that we should put it together on an area rug.” 

Rolling his eyes, Dean goes to his bedroom and brings back a small area rug.

“Happy?”

“Well, the one in the picture has fringes, and this one doesn’t…” Cas registers the look on Dean’s face. “It’s fine, really. Thank you.” 

Cas retrieves his phone from his coat pocket and sets it on a bedside table. He fiddles with it and soon _Groovy Kind of Love_ is, well, if not exactly blasting from the phone’s speaker, it’s at least filling the room, somewhat tinnily. The Phil Collins playlist rides again.

They get down to work, flipping the long white laminate boards around until the magic combination of holes are oriented correctly and pounding in dowels and tightening screws to build the square bed frame. They work pretty well together as a team. Dean lays the parts out, Cas cross-checks with the instructions and rearranges as necessary. Their fingers brush occasionally, when Cas hands Dean a screw or a dowel. The slight touches are like sparks on Dean’s skin. And even when his back is to Cas, Dean is aware of him, is mapping out his location with some sixth sense that seems to work on body heat or grace or something.

> When I'm feeling blue, all I have to do  
>  Is take a look at you, then I'm not so blue  
>  When you're close to me, I can feel your heart beat  
>  I can hear you breathing near my ear

Dean grimaces. _A little too close to home there, Phil_. He stretches a hand out and skips to the next song on the phone, not meeting Cas’s indignant look.

Cas holds the headboard steady while Dean works at attaching it to the frame. Getting the small hex wrench into the holes to tighten the nuts is tricky. He drops the nut for the third time and swears. 

“Are you finding this difficult Dean? We can go ask Sam for hel—”

“I’m fine, Cas. I don’t need help. It’s not difficult, it’s just. . . tricky working in this tight space.” Dean is not enjoying this adult jigsaw puzzle. He’s hot and he’s tired and he’s hoping for his headache to either go away or attain full aneurysm status and kill him outright. It doesn’t help that Cas is obviously enjoying the process. It figures, though. Dean wonders if Cas will want to attach the headboard to the wall. It’s always the last step in any IKEA build — fastening things to walls so they don’t tip over, so they don’t hurt anyone. Dean’s thinking it might be a good idea to attach the bed to the wall. So it has to stay. So it can’t leave the bunker. 

As they finish the base of the bed frame, _Take Me Home_ starts, and Cas smiles at him. Dean’s chest feels impossibly full, like something is blossoming inside, taking up all the space. _No, not a flower_. Dean struggles for a less lame metaphor. Like a fire ( _that’s better_ ). Like a fire is consuming him from the inside out, stealing the air from his lungs when he looks at Cas. That’s it. That’s the feeling he’s had since Cas has been back at the bunker. The feeling he’s been ignoring and repressing and running away from at top speed. Like he always does.

> There's a fire that's been burning  
>  Right outside my door  
>  I can't see but I feel it  
>  And it helps to keep me warm  
>  So I, I don't mind  
>  No I, I don't mind  
>  Seems so long I've been waiting  
>  Still don't know what for

Dean looks sourly at Cas’s phone. _Jeez, Phil. Can you not?_.

That’s the crux of the matter, really. He can finally admit it to himself. He has been waiting, for so long. And he does know what for. For Cas to make the first move, because he’s been scared to put a name to what he feels for Cas. Why? Is he scared that Cas doesn’t feel the same way?

Dean tightens the screws on the support beam and unrolls the slats that will support the mattress, and then stands up, stretching and rubbing at the small of his back. Cas is sitting cross-legged on the floor putting together one of the drawers that go under the bed, double-checking everything before tightening each screw. His face is screwed up in concentration, the furrow between his brows deep enough to lose a dime in. He picks up the instruction booklet for a closer look.

_Take a chance. Go first, make the first move_.

Dean finds himself watching Cas’s lips. He’s got almost everything he wants, Cas is here, No more Heaven. Just here in the bunker with Dean. What is he waiting for?

> How long must I wait, how much more can I take  
>  Before loneliness will 'cause my heart, heart to break?  
>  No, I can't bear to live my life alone  
>  I grow impatient for a love to call my own

Dean looks at the iPhone like it’s a cursed object. What would Phil Collins do? He’d say something. He’d let Cas know how he feels. _Well, fuck if he’s going to let himself be outmanned by a small English dude who kinda looks like Crowley_. If Phil can confess his feelings, so can Dean. He takes a deep breath.

“Cas, I’m glad you’re staying here. Really glad. I’ve missed you when you’re not here. You don’t know how happy it makes me to know you’re going to live here now.” _Ok, good start. Now go for broke._

“I have...um. I mean, there are feelings involved here. For you...” He trails off and stands there waiting for Cas’s response.

Cas is still looking at the instructions. “I know. Do you think we need to attach the headboard to the wall?”

Dean does a really good impression of a constipated goldfish for a couple of seconds.

“What do you mean, you _know_?”

Cas looks up at him.

“I _know_. Dean, I know you have feelings for me. You prayed a lot to me when I was gone. It colored your prayers. I know that you love me. I _know you_. Down to your very molecules. How could I not know how you feel?”

Dean looks peeved. “Well that’s not fair, I only figured it out just now.” He looks down at the hex wrench that’s still in his hands. “Soooo, how are you feeling about moving in here?” 

Cas knows what he’s really asking. Cas stands and gets all up in Dean’s personal space. He puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders and looks him square in the eyes. 

“Dean, I’ve always loved you, since I found you in Hell. I’ve been waiting a long time for you to realize it for yourself.”

> 'Cause we've shared the laughter and the pain  
>  And even shared the tears  
>  You're the only one who really knew me at all

The playlist is definitely fucking with him now. But Dean only has a moment to think about that because Cas is leaning close to kiss him. At the touch of Cas’s lips, the knot in Dean’s chest begins to loosen. He kisses back, tentatively.

“Dean, if you're afraid I'm going to leave you again, I can assure you, I'm not"”

“You sure?” Dean hates how small his voice sounds.

“I’m sure,” Cas says, and kisses him again. Dean pulls away with a smile and lifts the rolled mattress onto the bed frame. He cuts the straps and the mattress uncurls like a potato bug ready to make a getaway. It flops roughly into place on the wooden slats. Dean sits and bounces experimentally before lying back. He pats the spot next to him. “Come on, Cas. Let’s check it out.” 

“But we’re supposed to wait 24 hours for the mattress to regain its shape,” Cas points out. Dean leers at Cas and waggles his eyebrows for good measure.

“Nope, I don’t think we’re gonna do that.” He pulls Cas down onto the bed beside him and kisses him.

> Anytime you want to you can turn me onto  
>  Anything you want to, anytime at all  
>  When I kiss your lips, ooh I start to shiver  
>  Can't control the quivering inside  
>  Wouldn't you agree, baby you and me got a groovy kind of love

“Cas, your playlist is starting over. Maybe we could listen to some real music now? Metallica? Led Zep? As much as I like Phil, I’m ready for something else now.”

Cas leans over and kisses him back. “Shut up, Dean.”

> We got a groovy kind of love.

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are from  
>  _Groovy Kind of Love_  
>  _Take Me Home_  
>  _Can't Hurry Love_  
>  _Against All Odds_  
>  by Phil Collins, of course.


End file.
